Then I, too, with the lark would wing
My little flight, and, soaring, sing

When larks drop downward to the nest,
And day drops downward to the sea,
And song and wing are fain to rest,

The lark's dear wisdom guideth me,
And I too turn within my door,
Content to dream, and sing no more.

Mary Ainge de Vere [1844

AMID CHANGE, UNCHANGING

THE Poet singeth like the bird that sitteth by the rose, While dews are chill, and on the hill the first faint sunbeam

glows;

While through the buds' thick-folded green the first redrose streak shows,

Sing, Poet, sing of Hope and Spring,

Still sing beside thy rose!

The Poet singeth like the bird that sitteth by the rose, While on the golden summer noon her golden heart o'er

flows;

And now she waxeth red, now pale, yet ever is the rose, Sing, Poet, sooth of Love and Youth,

Still sing beside thy rose!

The Poet singeth like the bird that sitteth by the rose, When from the drooping stalk her brief sweet glory earth

ward goes,

And the red is kindling on the leaf that fadeth from the rose, Sing, Poet, sing, remembering,

Still sing beside thy rose!

Dora Greenwell [1821-1882]

"QUI SAIT AIMER, SAIT MOURIR"

"I BURN my soul away!"

So spake the Rose, and smiled; "within my cup

All day the sunbeams fall in flame, all day

They drink my sweetness up!"

"I sigh my soul away!"

The Lily said; "all night the moonbeams pale Steal round and round me, whispering in their play An all too tender tale!"

"I give my soul away!"

The Violet said; "the West wind wanders on, The North wind comes; I know not what they say, And yet my soul is gone!"

Oh, Poet, burn away

Thy fervent soul! fond Lover at the feet
Of her thou lovest, sigh! dear Christian, pray,
And let the world be sweet!

Dora Greenwell [1821-1882]

TO THE POETS

BARDS of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?
Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
With the noise of fountains wondrous
And the parle of voices thund'rous;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns,
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not,
Where the nightingale doth sing,
Not a senseless, trancèd thing,
But divine, melodious truth,
Philosophic numbers smooth;
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you,
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumbered, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim.
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Ye have souls in heaven too,

Double-lived in regions new!

John Keats [1795-1821]

THE PROGRESS OF POESY

A PINDARIC ODE

AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake,

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon's harmonious springs

A thousand rills their mazy progress take:

The laughing flowers, that round them blow,)
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.

Now the rich stream of music winds along

Deep, majestic, smooth and strong,

Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign:

Now rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;

The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

O Sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares

And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.

On Thracia's hills the Lord of War

Has curbed the fury of his car,

And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptered hand

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king
With ruffled plumes and flagging wing:
Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey,

Tempered to thy warbled lay.

O'er Idalia's velvet-green

The rosy-crowned Loves are seen

On Cytherea's day,

With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures,

Now pursuing, now retreating,

Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating,

Glance their many-twinkling feet.

Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:
Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay.
With arms sublime, that float upon the air,
In gliding state she wins her easy way:

O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move

The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

Man's feeble race what ills await!

Labor, and Penury, the racks of Pain,

Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,

And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!

The fond complaint, my song, disprove,

And justify the laws of Jove.

Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?

Night, and all her sickly dews,

Her specters wan, and birds of boding cry,

He gives to range the dreary sky:

Till down the eastern cliffs afar

Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of

war.

In climes beyond the solar road,

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,

The Muse has broke the twilight gloom

To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.

And oft, beneath the odorous shade

Of Chili's boundless forests laid,

She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat

In loose numbers wildly sweet

Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,

Glory pursue and generous Shame,

The unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,

Isles, that crown the Ægean deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,

Or where Mæander's amber waves
In lingering labyrinths creep,

How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mute, but to the voice of anguish?
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breathed around:
Every shade and hallowed fountain
Murmured deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.
Far from the sun and summer gale,

In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon strayed,

To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face: the dauntless child

Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled.

This pencil take (she said), whose colors clear

Richly paint the vernal year:

Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!

This can unlock the gates of joy;